


Dead By Daylight: One-shots + Requests

by yuikimuraenthusiast (DontMindMeImJustAMeme)



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Angst, Blood, Blood and Injury, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hallucinations, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Mother-Son Relationship, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Child Abuse, Torture, also sorry for the shitty summary uhygsduy, freddy's bullshit, i just needed my fix of anna adopting quen ok
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:47:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28451124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DontMindMeImJustAMeme/pseuds/yuikimuraenthusiast
Summary: In a world filled with endless suffering, is it possible to more than survive? Is there room for hope, joy and laughter around the campfire? Is it possible to truly be alive once you’ve died a hundred times and tenfold?
Relationships: Anna | The Huntress & Quentin Smith, Steve Harrington & Nancy Wheeler
Comments: 28
Kudos: 30





	1. Introduction

This will just be a place for all my small ideas, unfinished works, one-shots etc. Yes, I am taking requests as well, just say in the comments any idea that you want! It can be a Tumblr prompt, a ship, or anything at all. ~~ImighteventakeNSFWrequests~~. 

Things I will not write:

  * Rape/non-con 
  * Freddy x [anyone] because 2010 Freddy can perish
  * Anything underaged/pedophilia
  * Incest 
  * Certain things that I am not comfortable with (when I come across these, I will list them here for your convenience)



When you make a request, I will reply when the piece is being worked on and again when it is done. I will try my best to get to every request as well. Also, don’t hesitate to send multiple requests! If you have any further questions feel free to ask me.

**Important** : Please leave requests on this first chapter! I’d like to leave it all here to make my life easier  .｡*ﾟ+.*.｡(❁´◡`❁)｡.｡:+*


	2. Maternal Instincts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some instincts are too hard to ignore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: blood and injury

Frank Morrison? Yeah, that guy can go fuck himself. 

Because now Quentin was out here all alone in the midst of Ormond Resort, just hoping that Joey was hosting The Legion’s collective body so that he could snag some caffeine for moments before he enters a trial. Joey was pretty alright even with his temper, and so is Susie, but Julie can be fucking ruthless and Frank Douchbag Morrison gave him a brain aneurysm with every single interaction, as unlike Julie, who - yes, is quite cutthroat, but at least she doesn’t go out of her way to make his life miserable. 

Now standing outside of the familiar building, he takes a handful of snow and throws it directly at a broken window with all his strength. When he hears a muffled ‘ _oh_ _fuck you, Smith!’_ that anger inside him subsides into something a little bit more manageable, an amused grin sneaking onto his face. 

But the door bursts open so hard that it could have almost been ripped off its hinges, and Quentin’s eyes widen to find that very same asshole now wielding a hunting knife and pointing it in his general direction.

“You’re fucking dead, Smith!” 

Now this was his queue to run. 

_Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck_. He really shouldn’t have done that, all things considered, because his own little personal medkit was full of supplies from a successful raid of Léry's Memorial Institute. But God, the feeling of Frank getting just a tiny taste of what he deserved felt so good, he just had to seize the opportunity. The Entity would never let him do anything like that in a trial. She had too much influence over the realms during then. Though the good thing about that was that no matter how hurt they were - punctured lung, organ failure, severed limbs, internal bleeding - they’d always be put back together instantly. Not outside trials. No, you bore the weight of the injury for what seems like weeks before your injuries finally vanish. 

He always hated Ormond because it was difficult to run through the snow. It made the ground soggy and slippery, having to constantly trench through especially dense areas of snow. But if he had a hard time, then so did Frank, and with another angry scream from him Quentin picked up the pace. _Fuck, this is his own terf though. I need to get out of here if I want to keep my fingers_.

He needed to cross the realm barrier because killers aren’t permitted to leave unless special circumstances arrived and the Entity allowed them. But God, the actual realm of Ormond is so much bigger than the trial version, and Frank was gaining distance on him. Fast. 

_I can’t turn back to the campfire_. The realm rotation recently occurred which placed Ormond perpendicular to the campfire, and right next to Ormond was Léry's. _Fuck, I can’t go back to Léry's though, because The Doctor will be pissed that I took his shit again_ , Quentin thought. _That means…_

The Red Forest. The Huntress’s realm. It was right in front of him, and the second closest realm to Léry's. He just has to make it past the barrier which will take him into the forest right near what must be The Huntress’s dwelling. And he’s almost there too, just a little further-

A hand grabs him by the collar of his shirt and jerks him back, Quentin losing his footing and slipping on the snow, right back into Frank and crashing into him. He’s quick to roll off him, trying to break out into a sprint again, but skinny fingers claw at his ankles bringing him back down to the ground chin first. He spins around onto his back, kicking wildly at the man trying to stab him in the throat. A harsh kick to his sternum though sends him back and wheezing for air, finally letting go of his ankle in favour of catching himself before falling. 

Quentin’s on his feet again, ignoring the way his hand hurt from clutching his personal medkit so hard, knuckles probably bruising from the fall that he took. Doesn’t matter. As long as everything remains intact, it’s fine. He’s fine. 

There’s a shout from behind him, one that he ignores until a hand snakes around his arm, tugs him back, and a blade sinks into his right shoulder. He screams, half falling to the ground but catching himself on one knee partly due to the fact that the blade remains embedded into his flesh. He’s taken by the collar of his shirt once more and is lifted up to meet Frank at face level. He couldn’t see it behind the mask, but he could sense it in his laboured breathing and the grip on his shirt that he had seriously pissed the guy off. 

“You think that was funny?” Frank sneers from behind the mask.

_Kinda_. “It was just snow. You don’t have to make a big deal about it.” 

There’s an uncomfortable silence between them before Frank withdraws his knife with a wet _schlink_ and releases the grasp on his collar. “Get the fuck outta here. I’ll give you three seconds.”

_Only three?_ Quentin shakily returns to his feet, clutching his shoulder wound with his spar hand. _I don’t have enough time to make a complete 180 back to the campfire in three seconds_.

“Three.”

Fuck! He doesn’t really have the luxury of deciding, now does he? Can’t go back to safety, and he’s certainly not going to run back into The Doctor’s arms. 

“Two.” 

There’s only one realistic option that Quentin is willing to take, being the Red Forest. But he’d have to hide. The Huntress was an excellent tracker, and with this shoulder wound… 

“I’d start running now.” 

He’ll take his chances with The Huntress, and bursts into a sprint towards the trees and rain. He’s running, running far so that there’s not even a speck of snow on the ground, not bothering to look over his shoulder to gauge how close he is, only bothering with what’s ahead of him, a possible escape. He’s sure he had it because Frank would have caught him by now, and the trees are significantly different from the dead deciduous trees littered throughout the resort. No crunching of snow, no footsteps beside his own. He pauses and looks behind him, and Ormond no longer visible with Frank nowhere in sight.

Okay, that’s one problem evaded, but now to address the elephant in the room- well, there were two elephants really. How was he going to sneak his way around Ormond so he doesn’t get his ass handed to him by Frank or Julie, and what about the huge, gaping stab wound in his shoulder. There’s no fucking way he’s going to use up all the materials he just gathered from Léry's just to use it on him. He found really good stuff too, more than just the common roll of bandages. Styptic agents, gel dressings, anti-hemorrhagics and even a shot of adrenaline. No opium, like usual, but at least these were decent equipment for severe injuries. Sure, his shoulder was bleeding a lot and soaked into his sleeve, his wound wasn’t _that_ severe. He’d bleed out slowly, and judging from the place of where he was stabbed, no major artery or vein was hit. 

That didn’t stop it from hurting like a bitch. He kept pressure on the wound, trying not to be miffed by the rain and fog obscuring his vision. The Red Forest was incredibly weird with the rain - you were soaked thoroughly, and the mud was like a death trap waiting to be slipped on, but you were never cold because of it. The rain held no temperature. Hell, the snow didn’t have any temperature. He prefers not to feel the rain or snow unless he had to (like hitting Frank with a snowball) because it just wasn’t right. Snow should be cold, yet his fingers weren’t turning red, he wasn’t shivering soaked in rain like this. And he hated it. It was convenient not to feel the elements during a trial, but now it just makes him feel numb. Dead. A phantom haunting his own body. 

He kept walking. Maybe he could find something to sew up his wound with. The Huntress was bound to have something, seeing that he’s one of the most human killers if you ignored her height. This has got to be a new record for him; ransacking not one, not two, but three Killer realms in the same trial break. That’s something Nea, David and Min would do. 

He tried settling the anxiety in his chest by focusing on his wound, focusing on finding something scrappy to mend it, focusing on the warmth of his blood because it was one of the only things that did hold temperature. Nothing the Entity made rarely held any fundamental properties except the obvious, like how the rain was wet, but wasn’t actually hot or cold. He could feel it, but just its presence and nothing more. Survivors and Killers were different. They all held body heat. And right now his bleeding shoulder was the only physical sensation that reminded him yes, he is alive and no, this isn’t a dream. Sometimes in a trial, he’ll just stare at his own blood trickling down his arm, taking a moment to actually feel before patching it up with some butterfly tape. 

Breathing in and out, he makes his way through the forest, feeling the slick (but never cold) bark underneath his fingers as he passes the countless trees and shrubbery. He eventually made his way to the foot of The Huntress’s cabin and looked for an entry inside. In trials, there were always a few windows and multiple doorways to enter, but seeing as this isn’t a trial, the cabin and its layout is vastly different and all the windows actually had panes of glass. He keeps low, ducking underneath the windows and crawling around to find another entry, stumbling upon a back door. It was open, which means The Huntress isn’t home, right? There’s no light coming from within, no sign of movement inside, no thumping or sounds that suggested someone resided inside. 

_I am so fucking stupid_ , he thinks to himself while stepping inside. He takes in the scenery, finding a familiar bloodied table and small fireplace with animal furs hung up on the walls. _She could come home any second now, and the moment she finds me snooping around in her shit, I’m dead_ , which wasn’t the worst thing considering death isn't permanent, but it wasn’t exactly a pleasant experience either. He’d also lose everything he had in his personal medkit. 

He shuffles past the animal carcasses that hang on hooks from the ceiling in what looks to be some sort of bloodletting room, in which Quentin has to swallow back bile at the rancid smell of blood and flesh. He makes his way up a flight of stairs, finding his way into a room with a bed in the middle of it covered in blankets, animal furs laid at its feet, another fireplace and a drawer resting beside the bed in the corner of the room. He gingerly opens the drawer and shuffles through its contents; clothes, other fabrics, nothing incredibly useful, but still bookmarking it anyway if worse comes to worst. The second drawer is… Toys. Just a stack of wooden children’s toys. There was a carved bear, horse and cat, as well as a few picture books laying flat underneath everything. Spinning tops, dolls, blocks, and Cyrillic letters. _Why does she have toys and books? Did she make them herself? Is that what she does to pass time here?_ Quentin was for sure that her go-to was hunting elks and stringing them up on her roof as he saw before.

He doesn’t make it to the third draw, because the sound of a door slamming shut almost makes him scream. Hand clamped over his mouth in a vice grip, he peers from behind the door to find a shadow slowly approaching. _Fuck, fuck, fuck!_ Her humming was drawing closer, and there was no other exit to be had since the only window was placed far too high for him to reach. _Fuck! Why do I have to be 5’7’’?_ But looking under the bed, he knew that being shorter had its perks. He could hide in places that Jeff and David couldn’t, being one of the scrawnier Survivors. Not letting that thought really bother him at the moment, he makes a mad dive to the floorboards and under the bed, trying to shuffle as far away as the edge as possible. One hand over his mouth to stifle his trembling breathes, he hopes that he left no blood behind. 

The door creeps open. Heavy footsteps enter, Quentin watching them make their way from the doorway to the drawer. She inspects it, her humming faltering a note when he remembers that he didn’t close the second drawer. _FUCK! She knows I’m here now! How did I forget that?_ Okay, he was panicking and still is, but, come on. Rookie mistake. 

She steps back, and Quentin isn’t really sure what she’s doing which scares him even more. He doesn’t know if she’s armed or not, but considering she’s a literal Killer, he’ll assume yes. He tries to crawl back feeling far too exposed on how close he is to the edge of the bed and hits his injured shoulder against the bed frame, releasing a muffled cry of pain that he just couldn’t contain. He freezes and turns his gaze back towards the feet which are facing directly his way. _Oh shit, oh fuck, I’m so dead_. 

She bends down, her face coming into view as she peers under the bed. They lock eyes. Quentin’s blue ones stare directly into The Huntress’s, black and endless like the new moon sky. He’s pretty sure that he stopped breathing because his chest is screaming for air and he’s already on the verge of passing the fuck out, however, The Huntress extends her hand towards him and he flinches back like he’d been stung. The Huntress retains a small smile on her face- wait, she’s smiling at him. Why’s she doing that? And it wasn’t cruel or malicious either, it seemed genuine and wholesome like she really meant it, and when she extends her hand further Quentin realises she’s trying to help him. _You think I’m stuck_. It was more of a question, really. 

No, no fucking way. She’s lying, a facade to coax him out only to butcher him like elk. God, he’s so close to throwing up. He feels so sick and nauseous that the world is swaying in the corners of his vision, feeling so claustrophobic underneath the bed with nowhere to run to, trapped, right before a Killer who had no problems killing him previously. 

The Huntress sighs and looks worried. Hold up. She looks worried?- _HOLY FUCK_. Quentin almost sent himself through the frame of the bed and into the ceiling with the absolute surprise that just flooded his chest. _YOU’RE NOT WEARING YOUR MASK?_ He had to be hallucinating with how sick and terrified he was, but she was truly right in front of him maskless. He’s been so unbelievably afraid that he didn’t even take the time to register her face, her thin lips and high cheekbones, and the scar across the left side of her small nose. 

She retracts her hand and stands up, and the fear Quentin had been feeling immediately returns like whiplash, backhanding him in the face and making him regret every life choice he ever made. Even the choice of throwing the snowball at Frank, and he thought he’d never regret that. But here, underneath The Huntress’s bed inside her cabin, completely helpless and a subject to her will, he can’t help but feel as though maybe he should have waited for another day. 

The bed moves, and now he’s really panicking because while being his cage, it was his only cover, The Huntress being tall and unable to crawl underneath to him. Why not just pull him out though? If she kept trying, she could probably catch him off guard to be able to snag an ankle and yoink him from the safety of his hiding place. But then there’s the scraping of the bed’s legs against the floor and in one smooth motion, the bed is lifted up off the ground and raised over the Huntress’s head. 

_Whatthefuckwhatthefuckwhatthefuck-_ How is she that strong to lift an entire fucking bed off the floor? He’s just frozen there, a deer in the headlights, and The Huntress gives him another warm smile that just makes him so upset and confused. 

“Прийти, “ she says, giving him a small nod as if to reassure him. 

_Fuck, I don’t really have a choice, do I?_ He hesitantly crawls out from under the bed to the side near the drawer, The Huntress placing the bed down gently before turning to him. Her eyes remain soft and she holds her hands out in the universal gesture of friendliness, though it was hard to ignore the bloodstains on her shirt. He tries to calm himself down anyway. With a clear head, he can think of how to get himself out of this situation. The Huntress kneels in front of him, slowly reaching out for his shoulder but he flinches back. 

The Huntress frowns before reaching out to him again. “Все еще.“ 

He doesn’t know what to do and he cannot understand her for the life of him, but it seemed like moving made her upset so this time he wills himself to not flinch again as her hand grazes his shoulder and peels away at the clothing stuck to his skin thanks to the dried blood. She inspects the wound, her eyes narrowing in concern and tracing the edges of the wound with her gaze. It wasn’t a long cut, but it was deep, deep enough to be worried about it. 

“Ждать, “ she says, raising a hand as if to mean ‘stop’ before standing up and taking off down the stairs. 

Quentin is so lost and so confused. Why hasn’t she killed him? Why is she smiling at him so fondly? And the attention to his wound, his wound made her worried. But, no, that can’t be. She’s a Killer. She’s killed him countless times without mercy or remorse. Okay, okay, sometimes if he, Feng and Cheryl are the last Survivors, she’d let them go. But he thought it was just a pity thing. Is she pitying him now? Saw his bleeding shoulder, saw how scared he looked, and decided to let him go? He’s not complaining right now since he still has his medkit of supplies, but it still left a bitter feeling in his heart. He’s already coddled by the Old Man Squad, he doesn’t need Killers to join in too.

In a moment's notice, she returns with grey cloth, a basin of water and a metal kit, gently placing each of them down before turning to Quentin. “Все еще, “ she says again, slowly pulling off his long-sleeved vest and placing it beside her. She takes the cloth, dips it in water, and hooks the hem of his shirt with a spare finger to pull back the ruined fabric. She dabs at the area around the wound, cleaning up all the blood with Quentin trying his hardest not to recoil at the touch. He was uncomfortable, but The Huntress was trying to help him so he swallowed his feelings and focused on breathing. 

Maybe The Huntress thought he was in pain because she resumes her soft humming, smiling at him whenever they make eye contact. When she’s finished cleaning the wound, she opens the metal box and picks out suture made of silk. He wonders if anyone’s actually taught her how to properly stitch a wound close because she’s quite crude with her handy work, but after it’s done and Quentin can finally breathe again she pulls him into a hug. 

Okay. Okay. Now this is way too much. 

She doesn’t really notice the way he freezes in her embrace, can’t feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest, because the only time he’s this physically close with a Killer it’s because they’re lifting him off the floor to hook him or worse and just thinking of it almost made him vomit. A hand reaches for his head and begins brushing out his curls which should have been soothing but had Quentin fighting not to scream and shove her away. When the hand leaves to pull him close again, there’s a mental sigh of relief. 

“Милый, “ she hums, feeling the sound vibrate in her chest. “Милый ребенок.” 

Without warning, she scoops him up, one arm cradling his back with the other hooked under his knees and swiftly places him on the bed. Confused, he raises an eyebrow. “W. What are you doing?” 

She kneels against the bed to reach his level once more, placing hands on her chest. “Мама.” 

_WHAT?_ That _was_ a word he recognised, and his eyes went wide in shock and embarrassment. “W-What? No! No, you- you’re not my mom!”

The Huntress tilts her head confused. “Ребенок?” 

_Okay, she obviously doesn’t know what I’m saying, so how do I…?_ He points to her. “You, mama?” He shakes his head, continuing. “No.”

She got that, and he knew it because she looked hurt and confused and so lost, her eyes almost begging Quentin. _But for what? Why is she sad now? What does she want from me? I wish I could just understand her or something_. 

“I-I’m sorry, I uh…” God, he doesn’t know what to say. This whole situation is awkward and embarrassing and seeing The Huntress look sad made him feel guilt when he shouldn’t. He takes a deep breath and places a hand on his chest, “Quentin.” 

The Huntress doesn’t respond and appears even more confused, so Quentin repeats the act, pointing to himself this time and saying it again, slower this time. “Quentin.” 

“...Kventin?” 

He nods enthusiastically. “Yeah, yeah! Quentin.” 

“Kventin, “ she repeats, like trying to get used to saying the name so it felt right on her tongue. 

“Okay, now you, “ he points to her. “ What’s your name?” 

She gestures to herself and he nods. “Мама.” 

Quentin’s smile falls from his face, exasperated. “No, no your _name_.” He points to himself. “Quentin.” He points to her, giving her a ‘your turn’ gesture as best as he can.

“Мама.” 

He sighs. “Y’know what? Fine, you win.” He pauses to psych himself up for it. “ _Mama_.”

Seeing the excitement in being called mama light up in The Huntress’s eyes made Quentin smile too. A genuinely happy Killer, and not happy because they were going to gut him, but because had just been here, existed and called her his mom, which was weird but fine. It was a good kind of weird, the refreshing kind, the one where you start off the story like ‘oh my God, you are never going to believe what happened’ kind. That… That was nice. And being loved for just having been born was nice. But maybe this wasn’t love. Maybe The Huntress was just confused. _Fuck, what happens the next time I’m in a trial with her?_

She placed a gentle kiss on his forehead which completely took him by surprise, feeling the embarrassment creep down the sides of his neck. She leaned in for a hug but stood back suddenly as if stung, and Quentin’s gaze followed her own to find that her legs were slowly disappearing into embers. They exchange worried looks, Quentin wondering what’s going to happen to her as she quickly dives into the second drawer beside the bed and quickly draws one of the wooden toys out and places it in Quentin’s palms. 

“Я тебя люблю!-” were the only words she managed to choke out before completely disappearing. He wonders what they mean. 

Looking down at his hands, he examines the little toy. It was a wooden tiger. 

He fights down the sudden and overpowering feeling of sadness and guilt, opening up his medkit and placing the little tiger inside besides a roll of gauze. 


	3. Pretty Toys, Broken Boys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felix's first trial with The Nightmare. It doesn't end well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: blood and injury, graphic depictions of violence, torture, death, just freddy in general

He just wanted to see his father again, but he ended up in hell.

Hell. That’s what this place had to be, right? There was no other explanation, not that Felix Richter had ever been a religious man, he just can’t comprehend the absolute cesspool of suffering and agony this strange, Lovecraftian horror-esk dimension is, or what he did to deserve to be sentenced to a lifetime of death, sorrow and pain. 

Perhaps, his father was right. He should have listened to his old man.  _ Everything _ . Everything he spoke of was true. The ‘dark forces’ Felix was so sure was fiction to make out that the so-called secret society his father took part in appeared cooler to keep Felix from thinking his father was a loser. Maybe it was a warning. Maybe his father knew that the Entity would be after him because of his connections with their ‘Imperiatti’ group, no matter how obscure his connections actually were. It was his fault his father was taken, wasn’t it? Had the Entity been originally after him, but upon the opportunity arising itself when his father and his colleagues rushed to his protection from the Fog decided to take him instead? He finds where his necklace stays perched around his neck and allows the familiar coolness of the golden metal to seep through his fingers, focusing on that one sensation above all others to drown out the spiral of negativity he had fallen into with the crackling of the campfire before him.

The cool metal in contrast to the heat of the fire was quite odd to Felix, his fingers twisting his necklace leisurely. Even through all the layers he was clad in, the Entity’s realm provides no such comfort like warmth beside the single campfire that has twenty-three Survivors crowded around it at nearly all times, the only outliers being the times where four Survivors will be unwillingly whisked away into a Trial. 

Trials were beyond difficult for Felix, for reasons obvious, and others not so much. There was, of course, the painstakingly profound idea that you will die in more than fifty per cent of the time you participate in a trial unless your name was Feng Min and did not understand the concept of altruism whatsoever, in which case, good for her he guesses. And if that sounds bitter, then maybe he is, having no such qualms about him. He is self-sacrificial to a fault with a major hero complex that feeds on his almost absent ego alongside his crumbling sense of self-worth, as if he wasn’t suffering from the most severe case of Imposter Syndrome already in the real world. To be completely honest, despite being older and bigger than her, he is  _ terrified _ of Feng. Unless it was Quentin who can magically open exit gates faster than any other Survivor due to Entity Brand Bullcrap™, she will literally shove you aside to open the exits herself. That girl has a competitive streak wider than the Great Wall of China itself. If anything, he was the exact opposite of her, sensitive to rejection and overwhelmed with the feeling of failure if not arriving at his fellow Survivor’s aid when they needed it most. That’s why he can’t stay alive for most trials. That, and he’s the most inexperienced Survivor to date.

But then there were the other small quirks about him that other Survivors questioned. But he can’t help the fact that the Temple of Purgation is, in his opinion, one of the most beautiful realms in the Fog (and Felix can’t help but laugh internally at that oxymoron. Beauty. In hell. What a time to be alive). He can’t help but get distracted from the objective at hand to admire the craftsmanship of the main structure, the temple, built from chiselled stone with golden accents, leaving Felix to wonder if the precious metal used was pure. His interest in the temple had led to many lengthy conversations with Adam who shared the same interests of culture and language as him, trying their best to understand the Sumerian glyphs inscribed onto the tablet located to the right of the main entrance with the little knowledge they possess and have access to. Other realms such as the Yamaoka Estate also catch his dwindling attention easily, such as the one realm with the run-down manor. While in ruins, Felix can visualise the manor in the past at its fullest glory with a profound interest in the Japanese culture behind such elaborate architecture. He should converse with Yui some time, but his own anxieties get in the way of that. Yet, passing through the centre of the manor sends a chill down Felix’s spine, carefully stepping over shards of glass and blood most likely from an individual falling through the glass partition that keeps the two stories separated. He dares not to venture up to the second floor, even if it was possible. He does, however, have a bone to pick with the fool who designed the layout for Midwich Elementary, Léry's Memorial Institute, the Gideon Meat Plant, and Hawkins National Laboratory, for if he did not have an ability which quite literally reveals the location of generators to him, he may have never located a single damn generator in any crevice of the buildings for the life of him.

In addition to his limited attention span for anything other than architecture, culture and language, he cannot stand repairing generators. They are sensory  _ hell _ . The rusty, oil coated metal feels like giving a deep muscle massage to a cactus, along with the broken wire ends that scratch his soft, unweathered hands. And the putrid smell of petrol that radiates from the poor excuses of a machine on parr with the grating sounds of pistons pumping and gears turning is enough to make Felix go deaf. But the worst part is actually misfiring a generator. Now that was beyond one of the most fearful experiences he can recall above all others. The whole panel he was working on erupts in a brilliant, white light, blinding, and sending sparks flying in the air, and the sound of the explosion was just so  _ loud _ it sent Felix into a sensory overload almost every time. The embarrassing thing was though, was that it seemed no one had the same problem, and if they did, they could mask it much better than Felix ever could. 

“Felix!” 

He perks his head up to meet Claudette Morel’s gaze. He furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. “Yes?”

She raises a hand to display her fingertips which are disintegrating into golden sparks, saying “we’re going to be in a trial together.”

Felix blinks.  _ Huh?  _ He averts his gaze down to find that his hands too, along with his arms, are disappearing. He suddenly pales, still not being used to this at all, but a reassuring smile from Claudette settles his nerves, even if it's just by a minuscule amount. So he closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and forces a smile back. This is no time for cowardice. 

With an all too familiar shudder, the world around him condenses into long fences, houses, and reaching the end of the road, a preschool. Badham Preschool. He glances around for any sign of life yet finds none, a pang of fear striking his heart but forcing his trembling legs to move nonetheless. He immediately finds a generator in the basement of one of the buildings, getting to work on it for the sake of his team. He knows Claudette is with him but didn’t quite catch the other two. Trying to hotwire the generator, he ponders who could have possibly spawned in with him. He hopes it’s Adam or Jake, because Adam is friendly, and while Jake not so much, his mellow aura brings a feeling of tranquillity that Felix basks in whenever the chance arises. He finds it easier to concentrate in less intricate rooms, though he doesn’t think that makes sense to the normal person. But there’s just… fewer stimuli, less to look at, which means for Felix a better chance at concentrating on the task at hand, unlike when in the Temple of Purgation. He finishes up on the current generator, surprised by his work going undisturbed by his goldfish attention span or a wandering Killer. 

Carefully creeping his way up the basement stairs, he is unable to stifle a yawn. He immediately flushes despite the fact that no one is lurking around him, at least that he knows of. He could be after all be unknowingly stalked by The Shape, or The Ghostface. But after taking a quick half a minute to look around, that seemingly doesn’t seem to be the case. He travels along the outskirts of the realm, stepping lightly as to not to disturb any nearby crows. He isn’t Jake, after all. 

Another yawn, but this time his eyes become heavier, harder to keep open, and a wave of drowsiness crashes over him with all the force of a tidal wave. He halts, confused, and braces himself against the brick realm barrier beside him. He rubs the sleep out of his eyes, wondering if this is some sort of Killer power to weaken their defences. He’s only been in very few trials, but the Survivors have given him a crash course of sorts on all the killers. He recalls someone being able to put people to sleep. Who was it? 

He’s too tired to even formulate a cohesive thought, the grip of exhaustion tugging at the back of his mind. He’s at the edge of the realm, right? How much of a sin would it be to close his eyes even for the briefest moment? Surely, he wouldn’t drop right asleep. He’ll just rest his eyes for a second, to better his concentration, so that he doesn’t misfire a generator under the influence of hazy lethargy. It’s just one second, barely any time wasted, and he’ll be ready to repair another generator. His eyes flutter shut, and a sigh of relief was just about to escape from his lips before deep, raspy laughter sounds from directly behind him. He spins around in alertness, heart beating, blood pumping and ready to run, expecting to be met with the sight of the Killer. Instead, he watches as ashes fall from the dimmed sky. 

He stands there dumbfounded. What was that? Well, at least he isn’t sleepy anymore, the adrenaline rush he just received probably being the reason for his sudden wakefulness. But, even though he has only been to Springwood about three times, he has never witnessed ashes falling from the sky. Is this just ambience the Entity has created for whatever occasion? It seemed far fetched, but then again, Felix was trapped in a never-ending hell in which even dying doesn’t mean death. There is no permanence in this place. Only ruin, and monsters. 

A distant scream immediately snaps Felix out of his thoughts, eyes locking onto the bright red aura miles away from where he stood. It was so far that he couldn’t make out the silhouette nor identify the voice, but only recognises that it was probably female, or just Steve. Being so far from the scene yet so close to a generator he could already smell its fumes, he decided that the better play would be to focus on generators, since he hasn’t heard the sound of completion, nor seen a bright beacon light up the sky, carrying on with a heavy heart. It feels like such a Feng Min thing to do, and is still getting used to the idea that sometimes the best altruistic moves where to not move at all. 

Upon finding his next generator, suspicion creeps upon him. It has been an awfully long time since that person had been downed, so much that their aura has now faded to nothingness. He continues to work on generator repairs, however, with the occasional glance over his shoulder. Perhaps, the Killer is ‘slugging’, as Nea had dubbed it, having made up terms for many other things. But this early in a Trial? Isn’t that just a mistake seeing that every other Survivor is perfectly healthy and potential not even in proximity? 

And then another scream, this time sounding masculine. Well then, he’d been wrong. So not every Survivor was healthy. 

Beads of sweat trickle down Felix’s forehead. Now, he is faced with a difficult decision; work on the generator, or save his teammates. But in their current position, the latter is now suddenly much more appealing. With hesitance, he slowly backs away from the generator, glancing around for any danger, though it proving difficult with all this ash obscuring his view. Not so comfortable with running, he sort of speed walks over to the now fading red aura of the Survivor, locating most likely (though his depth perception being below average) either near or in the preschool. He hates it there, a strange feeling of doom and tragedy whenever stepping foot on preschool grounds, its walls groaning almost like it was under the immense burden of screaming children. He hates it there, because of the boiler room which always had a generator guaranteed to spawn there, and the hatch like eighty per cent of the time, yet the air muggy and humid somehow near drenching Felix in uncomfortable perspiration. 

He hates it there, but not as much a Quentin, who flat out refused to take a single step inside the haunted structure. His reasoning, while unknown to Felix, is almost understandable to a point, but not enough for Felix to really make sense of what he or even himself must be feeling. It was just that one place, and nowhere else, leaving Felix to further contemplate what must have transpired there to make Quentin physically repulsed by it to the point of even choosing to get hooked instead.

And then another scream, sending Felix into a now desperate sprint. He didn’t even process the voice of the Survivor, focused on rushing to everyone’s aid. No, no, they can’t lose like this, so early on in the Trial. If he can just get there in time, then maybe he can help someone up, do some rough patching up, yes, but it just being enough until Claudette can properly mend their wounds. Reaching the preschool with a speed Felix did not know he was capable of, he makes a break for the boiler room to hide. He can’t stay there forever without the risk of his teammate bleeding out, but to stay there just long enough to shake the Killer of his trail if they were ever on it. God, he doesn’t even know which killer this is yet. He can’t remember. Who was it that sent people to sleep? Who sang a lullaby? 

Wait-

Oh shit, there was a lullaby. But it wasn’t The Huntress’s, it was children. Children singing. Where did the children come from? Felix gingerly made way down the stairs, the lullaby growing louder in volume and ringing in his ears, until he stopped abruptly. 

Oh, that’s right. He remembers Quentin telling him this. The Killer was referred to as ‘The Nightmare’.

Another step, but not belonging to Felix. He whizzes around to catch sight of a cruel grin and burnt flesh before meeting a set of blades ripping past his luxury suite and deep into muscle across his chest, throwing him off balance. The last thing he hears is laughter, one he has heard after closing his eyes, before hitting his head against the concrete ground and blacking out.

  
  


**⥻** ⦽⦽⦽ **⦽** ⦽⦽⦽ **⥹**

  
  


Felix stirs to the fresh scent of blood. 

With a groan, he attempts to move, but finds that his hands are bound together to one of the many pipes adorning the boiler room with… jump rope? Odd. But the movement makes him hiss, drawing attention to the hot, white pain in his chest which now bares four deep gashes. And his head  _ kills _ , his vision still relatively blurry from the initial head trauma. Slowly, the world filters in once more, and he's able to make out the silhouette of Claudette no more than five feet away from him, yet still so far, restrained with what looks to be outdoor rope. 

“Are you okay?’’ She whispers. 

He takes in the absolute sight of Claudette and the condition she’s in; torn clothing; her dreadlocks falling out of her hair tie; blood staining her left abdomen from where The Nightmare must have gotten her, and pales significantly. “‘M fine.” 

She nods, before turning towards another woman whom Felix is only now realising is here; Feng Min.

“Min, how about you?”

She receives a sharp look from the small girl. “Do I look fine?”

Felix wants to scold her for her attitude - Claudette was only concerned for her wellbeing. It was a shame Feng failed to see that side of people and assumed the worst. 

“If anything, I’m more concerned about Quentin, “ Feng says, albeit a little harsh, but a valid statement nonetheless. That, and Felix is surprised that Feng was capable of feeling concern for another human being when she runs by him bleeding out on the ground so often, not even sparing him a glance. 

“I’m right here, y’know. You guys don’t have to baby me.” And that was the voice of their fourth Survivor, Quentin Smith, confined in what seems to be rusty swing chains against more boiler room pipes.

Feng shoots him another one of her signature sharp looks. “Uh, yeah we do. You’re super young, like, practically a toddler.”

Quentin huffs. “I’m seventeen.”

“Yep. That’s what I said; baby.”

“Min…” Claudette starts. “He’s only two years younger than you-”

“Shhh, Felix doesn’t need to know that.”

And with that, Claudette shakes her head and sends an apologetic look his way. 

How can these people be so calm? They are all bound in the boiler room of Badham preschool with a literal serial killer who will do God knows what to them, enjoying every second of their suffering. The strange ways of the Fog bewilders Felix. 

The eerie lullaby returns full force, footsteps clicking against concrete stairs. Felix swallows the lump in his throat and prepares a stone-faced facade for the Killer. He’ll do everything in his power to not give the Killer what he wanted, remembering what Quentin and the others had told him. He liked to toy with you, liked to try and find ways to break you. So he just won’t break. Won’t give in. He had been practically useless this Trial, so might as well make his time now worth it. They have all, objectively speaking, suffered much more than Felix has, being the most recent Survivor. 

The Nightmare reaches the bottom of the stairs. With a twisted grin, he ambles forward towards Quentin, who glares ice daggers back. 

The Killer tsk-tsked like a parent scolding a child. “Quentin, and here I thought you knew better than to pull such tricks against your dear old Freddy.”

“You’re seriously doing this because I blinded you with my flashlight after hitting you with a pallet?” Quentin asks with a cocked eyebrow, clearly not impressed. 

The Nightmare scoffs and shakes his head. “Of course not, I’m not that petty.” He averts his attention to Felix still on the dirty, bloodstained floor. “A little birdy told me there was a new toy, so naturally, I wanted my turn to play with him. And my, isn’t he a looker?” 

“Hey, how about you fuck off?” Feng Min snaps. Tiny, and bleeding profusely from her shoulder, but still managing to be the scariest little thing like a chihuahua, but a lot more dangerous. 

The Nightmare, however, remains unamused. “How about you shut the fuck up?”

“ _ Make me _ .”

Felix can’t help but notice how much more dangerous became The Nightmare’s grin. “With pleasure.” 

_ Oh shit _ . He can’t let this happen, but what does he do? What does he say? God, he’d always been terrible with words, so awkward and introverted, unlike the stereotypical rich boy who could flaunt his way into getting anything he wanted. But the longer he remains silent, the closer The Nightmare becomes to Feng Min. The feeling was agonising - self-preservation is a strong instinct but swallows his pride. 

“No- No, stop!” 

The Nightmare immediately turns around at registering the sound of his voice with an unwelcoming smile. “And so he speaks.”

Claudette and Quentin give him these looks from behind The Nightmare as if to say ‘no, don’t do that, you idiot’, but he had already sealed his fate seconds ago. 

Oh God, what does he say? The Nightmare (and everyone else) is looking expectantly at him. 

“Well, “ The Nightmare chides with a twisted grin. “Got anything you’d like to say to the rest of the class?” 

Felix swallows. “Why are you doing this?”

The Nightmare breaks out in laughter, causing heat to rise in Felix's cheeks. Now he’s just embarrassed, but it quickly turns to fear as The Nightmare makes long strides forward, swiping his blades and creating that metallic noise that absolutely grates on Felix’s nerves. 

He bends down, resting his arms on his knees when coming to face level with Felix. “Why am I doing this?” The blade on his index finger rests on his pale throat, Felix sucking emergency air into his lungs. “Because it’s fun.” 

Felix closes his eyes. “Just don’t hurt them.”

“Hurt them?” The Nightmare chuckles. “I’d be more worried for you.”

He places just enough pressure against his throat that the silver blade breaks through skin, hot blood trickling down Felix’s throat and staining his collar, Adam’s Apple bobbing as he swallows again. The others are shouting for The Nightmare’s attention but pays them no mind, too focused on dragging his blade lightly across his throat, down to his collarbone. If he pressed any harder, he could probably slit his throat and severe his carotid artery. And there would be so much blood, his dying body on display for all his fellow Survivors to see.

But instead, The Nightmare lifts his blade, every muscle in Felix’s throat relaxing until he plunges the blade in his thigh. Another wave of screams, this time accompanied by Felix’s own as he howls in agony. He digs and twists the blade, like prying his thigh apart to view its insides, a twisted surgeon, Felix gripping his own wrists to brace the pain in a bruising grip. The Nightmare eventually pulls the blade out, slick in his own blood and dripping onto the concrete floor. Felix’s vision goes dark. His world is spinning in uncontrollable pain, barely able to stay conscious. He can’t register the various shouting around him through the haze clogging his brain, only acknowledging that they exist, that they’re watching him with pity. 

The Nightmare cuts through his custom-tailored blazer and vest, discarding the shredded remains haphazardly and leaving Felix in just his shirt and trousers. He rips through each button slowly, tauntingly, letting each seam tear until his entire front torso is exposed. The humidity of the room only further irritates Felix’s skin, his fresh wounds now exposed to oxygen, their presence made apparent all over again. Everything hurts, every muscle down to the ache in his bones, the headache behind his eyes. He feels like he’s going to cry with him put on display for everyone to pity and mourn, but fights the urge back into something more socially acceptable like rage. He grits his teeth and just breathes to calm the whirlwind of hurt he’s been caught in. 

“Krueger, I swear to God.”  _ Oh, these things have names now?  _ Some of them barely seem human. “You can hurt me, “ Quentin continues. “You can do anything to me but for the love of God, he has nothing to do with what happened. It was my fault, right? So stop acting like a little school girl with a crush and fucking face me.”

Feng makes a little  _ ‘ooooo’  _ sound as if that was the sickest burn in the world, and that they were in high school and he was just sticking up to some bully instead of an actual Killer. But Felix is more concerned with this past history. Just how much are the Survivors omitting from their ‘Killer Guide 101’? Like the fact that they have names, or that they hold some serious grudges by the looks of things. 

The Nightmare - Krueger - glances at Quentin with a sort of amused smile on his twisted face, taking a step besides Felix. “You wanna know why I like to pick on your friends?” He takes a fistful of Felix’s blonde locks with his other hand and yanks his head back. “Allow me to demonstrate.” 

One swift motion and a blade had plunged itself into Felix’s shoulder. Unprepared, he screamed as it cut through muscle and bone alike like melted butter. And screaming was a regretful decision, because now a set of blades already coated in his own blood finds its way into his mouth, forcing him to pry his own jaw open to keep from slicing himself. He can barely breathe correctly, panic and the taste of copper and steel making him dry heave.  _ Just breathe through your nose _ , Felix, he chides to himself.  _ In and out, and do not panic _ .

"Don't you understand, Quentin?" Krueger says. “The thrill of having someone else’s life completely under your control? No other feeling could compare.”

_ I’m in control of my own life, asshole _ , Felix thinks to himself, unable to speak with the knives already cutting the delicate flesh in his mouth.  _ Fuck, what do I do? _ He can barely think past the set of blades that threaten to slit his throat from the inside out, the smell of blood so thick in the air it’s clogging his airways.    
  
“This is between you and me!” He can’t see Quentin because of the awkward angle that he must force his head into, but he doesn’t think he’s ever heard the boy so angry. “ _ I’m _ the one you have history with, and  _ I’m _ the one that took you away from your favourite for good.” 

Krueger smirks. “Jealous of the new guy I see.” 

He turns back towards Felix, retracting his blades from out his mouth and flicking them with a horrible metallic sound. Felix gags and coughs trying to spit the blood from out his mouth when the action is cut short by a hand wrapping around his throat and pushes him back, head slamming against pipes. His vision blurs, and for a moment the cries of protest around him all muffle under the ringing in his ears, but he could still hear The Nightmare speak with how close he had leaned into his ear. 

“You and me, ” He rasps, “are going to have so much fun.” 

The grip on his throat tightens, and a set of four blades pierce into his shoulder. He screams, the pain hot and white and burning in his shoulder, in his chest and through his arms and neck.  _ Breathe. Just breathe and don’t give him what he wants _ . And he’s trying that but the hand crushing his throat cuts off all oxygen, lungs screaming for air as he feels himself become lightheaded.  _ Don’t pass out, just don’t. Don’t move - moving uses oxygen _ . The knives are pulled out with a wet noise that makes his stomach coil, feeling the slick metal now on the base of his stomach and tracing over his navel. The Nightmare makes thin slices along his hip, following the hem of his pants before digging a knife into his side. He bites down on his own lip hard, trying so hard to muffle the sound of his pain but then he twists the blade and Felix’s vision blacks out for a second. He’s back immediately, the knife already out of his hip and feeling his thighs. The blades glide over the wound, Felix wincing then hating himself at the action seeing Krueger smile to himself.

“Are we having fun yet?” He says with such smugness it makes Felix want to throw up. 

Felix collects himself and settles for a stone-faced expression. “You’re pathetic and a coward. You prey on people who can’t defend themselves. Only a weak monster such as yourself would do that. In reality, you’re admitting that you’d lose to us in other circumstances.” 

“But these aren’t special circumstances, “ he replies. “You’ll never leave this place, so you already lost.”

“You can’t leave either, so you lost too.” 

His smile falters, and no matter what happens next, Felix tells himself that he already won. Krueger doesn’t reply, instead slicing down in chest and again over his collar bone. A blade is at his throat, hooks around the cord of his necklace and cuts down, cutting the base of his throat and ripping his necklace off in one quick motion. Relentless, he raises his gauntlet and with cruel precision, slowly sinks the blades into his chest, taking his time and basking in Felix’s hisses of pain. Blood is pouring down his chest, soaking his tattered shirt and trousers and pooling around him. 

Quentin and Feng haven’t given up screaming at Krueger. He wishes that they’d stop. 

The only one who wasn’t shouting was Claudette, head lowered and her eyes shut. It looked like she was focusing, focusing on her breathing to drown out everything around her. Felix wished he had that luxury. 

A sudden blistering pain shatters his thoughts, Felix throwing his head back and accidentally slamming it against the pipes. He could feel his hair, that it was slick so most likely bleeding. But right now, that fact and the sharp ache in his head was nothing compared to the pain in his chest, so much that he screamed again and kept screaming like that would somehow relieve him. It didn’t. The pain just continues, Felix wrenching his eyes shut and grinding his teeth as he tries to fight the urge to cry out. He peaks open an eye, gazing down to find burnt fingers pressing into the wounds of his shoulder. The action makes him feel sick and angry and violated but he can’t do fuck-all as The Nightmare pushes deeper into the gaping wound and smiles at him. 

“I’m gonna fucking kill you!” Quentin screams. “One day, when I get out of this hellhole, I’m going to kill you just like Dad and Nancy did. And you’re gonna stay dead. For good!” 

The Nightmare only spares the boy a glance back, grinning as he licks the blood off his fingers. 

Krueger turns back to Felix. “As much as I want to play, there are other children in the room who have been waiting so patiently for their turn.” He raises a single, bladed digit. “Gotta cut this short, but don’t worry. I’ll be seeing you very soon.” 

And with a flick of his wrist, there was an excruciating pain across his throat, feeling bile and blood rise into his mouth and choking on it. It was quick, but not quick enough, because he could hear the way Quentin screamed, hear Feng unleash unending crude insults with a trembling voice. Could hear Claudette sob. 

But then it was over, and he was back at the campfire shiny and brand new like nothing had ever happened. Ace gave him a small smile, but he didn’t respond, just kept standing there and staring into the fire. He heard the gambler speak but didn’t comprehend the words. 

He. He needed time alone. 


	4. What We Don't Understand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve has an ADHD episode. Nancy is there to support him.
> 
> Request made by Viry:  
> I would love to see some dyslexic/ ADHD alien Steve! 💖 The thing is, that he doesn't know that he has those conditions, and belives he is just dumb, as his parents always said.  
> Annnd, some survivors help him to know about dyslexia and ADHD, plus, realize that his parents were emotionally abusive.
> 
> Lots of fluff and hurt/comfort lmao.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: blood and injury, mentioned/implied emotional abuse and neglect
> 
> Thank you for the Steve request Viry! He's my favourite Stranger Things character <3 I'd especially love to write more of Quentin and Meg helping Steve navigate his ADHD but for now, please have my daughter Nancy who deserves love as well.

Steve hates going against The Doctor. There are the obvious reasons for that, of course, like how the Killer was a sadistic fuck who enjoyed the little ‘experiments’ he performed on all the Survivors. Being electrocuted burned every nerve in his body, made his muscles seize, could feel his eyes pushing against his skull. The migraines were horrible, and burns littered his body leaving red, angry blisters that made running a pain. 

There were other things too, however, that Steve didn’t know how to explain to the others. So he didn’t. He didn’t want to talk about how he heard familiar voices under the influence of The Doctor’s madness. He even saw them too, sometimes. In the corner of his vision, or in a reflection, he’ll see two awfully familiar people just standing there. Disappointed. His parents. He turns to look at them always, but they disappear before he can confront them. Just an illusion of the mind.  _ They’re not real _ , he always tells himself. The thought never sticks. 

And right now, trying so desperately to concentrate on the set of coloured wires before him, he just can’t fucking think. His ears are ringing, and he’s pretty sure they’re bleeding, but he can’t think past the unintelligible whispers in his head. They’re so close to him, yet have a distant echo like they’re surrounding him. He closes his eyes and tries to breathe, but he can’t. He’s so tired. His muscles ache and twitch. The chugging of the generator is too loud to the point he gives up, sinking into his knees and covering his ears. But it doesn’t muffle the voices. They’re louder now, screaming in a familiar voice. 

“ **Stupid! Stupid boy! English isn’t that hard - you shouldn’t be failing!** ” And he fucking knows that - Nancy even helped him with his English papers - but he, for the life of him, could barely read and write. He was failing English class, and his parents were so mad at him and he was mad at them because they just didn’t get it. English is fucking hard. _ I know I’m an idiot so fuck off _ . 

School was never his place. Well, the classroom wasn’t. Outside the classroom, he was King of Hawkins,  _ the  _ Steve Harrington, but he isn’t a teenager anymore. He was 19 now. An adult. ‘Steve Harrington’ doesn’t mean shit anymore, and certainly not in this place. Teachers always shouting at him to pay attention, to stop interrupting the lecture, but it wasn’t his fault they were so boring. Maybe if they were actually interesting and good at their job, maybe he’d actually do well for once. It wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t his fault like his parents thought. “ **You’re not trying hard enough!** ”  _ Yes, I am! Fuck, I am trying! _ He was trying so hard every day and no one even knew it, no one knew how fucking mentally exhausted he was. And after the whole Upside-Down-Demogorgan-Mindflayer bullshit, he’d used up all energy he had. So yeah, he flopped on his finals. But what else was new? 

But he is trying, trying to hotwire this generator that just doesn’t make any sense. When he appeared in the realms, the Survivors gave him a small tutorial on how to fix them, but somehow, a part of him already knew how to do it, like the Entity had given him that knowledge. It didn’t make him any better at repairing them. Sometimes they’d just explode in his face, and Steve has no idea what he did wrong. Feng yells at him a lot, and always tries to correct him, but no matter how hard he tries he always ends up misfiring the generator. 

“ **Can’t you focus for one second? If you did, then maybe you’d do something right for once in your life.** ” It was his father’s voice this time, and Steve remembered he had said that after a parent-teacher interview, and his mathematics teacher told them about how Steve always zones out in class or starts talking to the kid next to him.  _ It’s not my fucking fault _ .

The generator explodes and his hands burn, adding to the cluster of red marks and blisters that already adorn his hands and arms. “FUCK!” He slams his fist against the roof of the generator, pretty sure that he broke something but way too frustrated to care about it. And he just stays there for a moment, fists on the generator and head down resting, trying to learn how to breathe again, to calm down, but his heart is racing and his whole world is spinning, so far away. 

A hand touches his shoulder and Steve spins around to punch them in the face before the figure stands back with his hands up in a peaceful gesture. “Woah, woah, woah! It’s just me man!” 

Steve blinks. “The hell, Smith?” He relaxes his stance, turning back towards the generator as Quentin accompanies him on the other side. “Give a man a warning next time.” 

“I did, “ he replies. “I called your name out like four times but you didn’t answer me.” 

_ Oh _ . "...Right, whatever." 

And so they continue working on the generator in an unbearable awkward silence, Steve trying to drown out the whispers and mechanical wiring and failing miserably. He stops, frustrated and running a soot-covered hand through his hair. On any other day he'd be opposed to the idea of ruining his hair like this, but mid trial with his locks already matted with dried blood and flakes of dirt on top of his agitation? He couldn't care less. He sits back, gazing at the mess of circuits before him while twirling a curl around his finger feeling defeated and miserable. " **Giving up already?** "  _ No, asshole. I'm just… taking a break.  _

"Steve." He raises his gaze towards Quentin. He almost forgot that he was here. "You okay?" His voice was in a hushed whisper which was expected, but carried softness that made Steve seriously pissed. 

"I'm  _ fine _ , " Steve said, his voice tinged with irritation.  _ I'm the one that's supposed to be looking after you shitheads, not the other way around. _

Quentin opened his mouth to say something, but his words died on his tongue as they both felt the electricity in the air. The Doctor heard the explosion from before.  _ Fuck _ . His body turns to autopilot as he takes Quentin by the back of his vest and pulls him along with him through the corn and into the Thompson house. The Doctor seems to be following them, stalking them and ready to kill them, the feeling of static in the air growing stronger. It was easy to tell when The Doctor is close because he’s literally a walking taser that you could feel before you heard and saw. 

“Get in the locker, “ Steve whispers, shoving Quentin in front of the only locker on the lower floor. Sometimes they were lucky and had multiple, but this time they had no such luck. The lockers were made of metal, which should have been bad if it had not been Dwight who discovered that the inside was covered with a thick layer of rubber. It insulated the inside completely somehow, so if you got in there wasn’t a chance you could be caught in The Doctor’s static blast.

“Steve-” Quentin hisses, but he’s already pushing the boy inside and closing the locker doors.

In time as well, because as soon as Steve steps back he can feel a charge in the soles of his feet before it ripples through his spine as he lets out a blood curdling scream. He hated The Doctor. He hated The Doctor so fucking much, and everything just hurts and his vision is blurring, ears ringing and blocked from his own blood. There’s a laugh, and then something sharp and brutal digging into his back and he screams again, knocked to the ground on his knees. He doesn’t spare a glance behind him. He stumbles to his feet and bolts out down the stairs and around the rotting wood fences around the back of the Thompson house. 

“ **He’s going to catch you,** “ his ‘mother’ said. “ **Stupid. Such a stupid boy!** ”

“ **You never learn, do you?** ” God, did his dad have to join in on Berate Your Son Day too?

He made a mad dash for the pallet at the end of the fence that rests on what has to be gas tanks or whatever the fuck, The Doctor not too far behind him and grinning in anticipation even with the metal contraption stuck on his face. Steve reaches it, and for a moment hope blossoms in his chest before his fingers graze the edge only for the pallet to blink out of existence. The Doctor’s mace is brought down on his back once more with a sickening  _ crack _ as Steve falls amongst the dirt and bits of broken pallet.

“ **IDIOT. You’ve always been an idiot, huh?** ” He doesn’t even know who that voice is anymore, cannot discern between his mum, dad or if they’re just a stranger. Maybe they’re the same person.

He wants to cry so bad, which is stupid, because he can’t cry - not in front of a fucking Killer. But even then, he shouldn’t cry. Adults don’t cry, especially adult men. He has to be strong, and protect everyone, and take risks for them, he- he can’t let them see him like this. So defeated, and miserable, and feeling so broken. But his eyes brim with tears because the voices just won’t fucking stop and it is way too fucking  _ loud _ and his hands go to over his ears again but that does jack shit because of course it does jack shit. It’s in his head. There’s no escaping something that’s inside your head.

A hand takes him by the hem of his shirt, hoisting him into the air and onto The Doctor’s shoulder. He struggles, struggles hard because he’s on his last hook at 3 generators and if he dies now the team will be screwed without a fourth helping hand. The point of no return, as Nea calls it because one person will be hooked, another person going for the save, and then another being chased with no fourth person on a generator. So he struggles with what little strength he has, even through the intense pain in his upper back and worrying  _ absence _ of pain in his lower body, unable to really move his legs or hips. 

Tears slip down his cheeks as he feels the hook draw closer.  _ Fuck, fuck, fuck _ ! He flails his arms harder, trying the elbow The Doctor in the back and neck, but nothing seems to be affecting him. He needs his legs, but he’s pretty damn sure he snapped his spinal cord, so even if he struggled free he won’t be able to run. There’d be no point.  _ No, no, it can’t end like this _ . Hands take him by the torso and throw him up onto the meat hook for the third time that trial, the Entity’s claws sinking into his chest, body collapsing into a husk as he’s lifted into the sky. 

Dying by the Entity burns. Having your physical body ripped from its essence is like having your skin and muscles ripped off your bones, or being dipped in lava. Every time, you lost a part of you, something deep inside you missing, a gaping hole in your chest both physically and spiritually. There’s a numbness, one that longs to be filled but no matter what you do, how much shit you hoard or hang with other Survivors, nothing satisfies it. That won’t stop Steve from trying because he misses Hawkins so much, misses Dustin and all the shitheads he was friends with, misses Robin and even El. They made all the shit with his home life bearable. Now the only thing he feels he has left of Hawkins is Nancy. 

Steve burns back into existence by the campfire. The remaining Survivors turn to him expectantly, so he just shrugs his shoulders. “Died.” 

A lot of them apologise, others sympathise, and some don’t say anything at all. Which is preferred right now. Because even though when you left trial grounds every injury that affected you vanished, he could remember the whispering so vividly. 

“Steve?” Nancy asks, sitting on a log beside Yui whom she had come to befriend here. “Are you okay?” 

Shit, he’d been staring again.  _ For fucks sake, that is the second time I’ve been asked that today _ . “Nance, I’m okay, “ he said, maybe a little more snappy than he intended, but he’s not going to pretend he isn’t annoyed either. 

The two girls look at each other and seem to have some silent conversation that Steve doesn’t understand because he just doesn’t understand girls, period. But that doesn’t really matter. What matters is that he’s still on the cusp of fucking crying again and for no goddamn reason other than the trial went a little worse for wear this time. Okay, maybe hearing his parent’s voices fucked him up a little, and The Doctor was in no way a pleasant experience in both a sensory, physical and emotional manner, but this was his life now. He should be used to it. But he isn’t and it’s pissing him the fuck off. He storms his way behind a tree not too far, but distant enough that he doesn’t have to hear Meg, Nea’s and David’s obnoxious yelling. He runs a hand through his hair again, feeling so frustrated towards himself and the world that he could almost tear it out. 

He doesn’t know how long he stayed there like that, just tired and worn out and sad for no reason, but most of all just angry and irritated like he could scratch off his own skin. He’d been fiddling with twigs and leaves, crushing them in his hands or breaking sticks in half before throwing them away. He feels like an idiot. He knows he’s an idiot. And he fucked up the entire trial because of his own shit. 

There’s the crunching of dead leaves behind him, and Steve turns around to find Nancy walking through the shrubbery towards him, expression hard to decipher. “Hey…” She says, taking a seat next to him. “I’m guessing it was a shitty trial?” 

Steve throws another broken stick. “Doctor.” 

She cringes sympathetically, bringing her knees up towards her chest and hugging them close. “The Doctor can kiss my ass.”

Steve remains silent for a moment, trying to think some kind of intelligible thought, but everything in his head is jumbled like a massive earthquake had just hit his brain. 

“I’m such a fucking idiot, “ he blurts out, and he didn’t really mean to word it like that or bring that topic up, but he can’t stop himself from speaking. “I try every day so hard to protect everyone, and I can’t even do that. I just feel so- so fucking worthless right now. When I was with Henderson, and your brother and the other kids, I felt- God, I felt some kind of  _ purpose _ , y’know? I saw something that I was pretty decent at, that I make a pretty good damn babysitter but…” He had begun to smile when he remembered being able to protect them as a last-minute babysitter, but his expression falters. “But here? I can do anything. I can’t protect anyone. I’m just fucking useless here, just as useless before I met you.” 

“Steve, you are  _ not _ unless, and you never have been-”

“Oh yeah?” He can feel the agitation rise in his throat like hot bile, threatening to puke and feeling so sick again because she just doesn’t get it. “Tell me what good I did back in high school huh? Please, do enlighten me because I would love to hear it.” 

Nancy purses her lips, thinking hard. “Where is this coming from?”

_ Huh? _ “What do you mean?”

“It’s just… I don’t think I’ve ever seen you like this before. You don’t really talk about your- your… insecurities often.”

_ Yeah, why the hell would I?  _ Is it even really insecurity if they were uncertainties about one’s self? He was pretty damn sure that was a fact. 

He taps his foot against the ground rhythmically, nervous, and not really wanting to talk about it yet wanting to at the same time.

“I heard my parent’s voices.” It took a lot to say that, and when Nancy remains silent yet still looking at him, he sees that as a cue to continue. “When The Doctor shocks you, and you start seeing and hearing crazy bullshit, I heard my parents.” 

Nancy looks down at the forest floor. “What… Did they say?” 

He knew she’d ask that question and yet Steve still wasn’t prepared for it. He hated this - being vulnerable and small and scared. He wished this moment would be over right now. 

Settling back against the tree, he tries to calm himself down and release the tension in his shoulders. “They said… stuff…” And when Nancy gives him her hardest ‘yeah, no shit’ look he swallows his pride and continues. “They uh, called me stupid and other stuff.” 

“Steve.” Nancy took his hand gingerly, gaze soft, and Steve realised she was probably going to spew some comforting shit that would supposedly make him feel better, which would be admitting defeat, that he was weak, so he immediately backed up from her.

“No, no, it’s fine, Nance. They’ve said that shit before - I’m used to it, really.” 

And a second way too late, he realised that was a terrible thing to say judging by Nancy’s face, eyes wide with disbelief and horror like The Shape was standing right behind him. 

“Steve, you- why didn’t you tell me?” She’s looking at him with so much sympathy it hurts.  _ Stop it. Don’t give me that look _ .

“Well, why would I?” Steves runs a hand through his hair. “It isn’t relevant anyway-”

“Yes, it is!” 

He doesn’t get why Nancy is making such a big deal out of this. He doesn’t even see his parents anymore. He physically can’t. Well, unless the hallucinations and voices count when going against The Doctor apparent-fucking-ly. 

Nancy shifts her sitting position to leaning on her side, one hand propping her up to face him completely. “How often did they say things like that to you?”

Steve tries to rattle his own brain for answers. “They weren’t really around that often, I mean so… I guess whenever they were home? Like, especially during upcoming exams, or when they’d get a letter from one of my pissed off teachers, which was like, monthly.”

He kind of regrets saying all that in light of how quiet Nancy got, his heart thundering in his chest and blood pulsing through his veins.  _ Fuck, why did I say all that shit? Stevie boy you really are an idiot _ . 

But then she hugs him, wrapping her arms around his body and pulling him close, one hand on the back of his head and running fingers through his hair. It was soothing, and for the moment he couldn’t hear the other Survivors back at the campfire, couldn’t hear the crows cawing, couldn’t hear anything over the sound of his own heart beating and Nancy breathing. She was warm, and he embraced the heat and affection and not really knowing how touch starved he was until he felt her hug him again. Even if it wasn’t romantic this time, because he was over that now. Being in Nancy’s arms was enough, and he buried his head in the crook of her neck and began lightly sobbing. 

He didn’t know what really came over him.  _ Stop crying, stop crying, stop crying. Do not fucking cry in front of Nancy of all people _ . But he couldn’t. If anything, he cried harder. Countless words and whispers rang in his ears with conflicting messages that just made no fucking sense. It was like being 4 again, so afraid of the world and not understanding anything. He couldn’t really communicate that either because he had a bit of a speech delay, and no matter how hard his parents tried, little Steve Harrington wasn’t really cut out to talk until two years later. Maybe that’s when the strict policies began with his parents. They pushed him hard, maybe because they wanted some successful kid but didn’t have one, and so they were mad at him. Which was understandable he guesses. He’d always been big on self-improvement, he just wished he was a better kid.

“I’m- ‘M sorry-” He fumbled through shuddering breaths, but Nancy hushed him and stroked his hair. 

“You don’t need to say anything. I’m here for you, just like how you’re here for me.” 

There was a moment of comfortable silence before; “Why did you bother to find me?”

“Quentin came back and told me something was up, “ Nancy said. “He said I should check on you.” 

Steve sniffles. “He’s a good kid.” 

“Yeah, he kinda reminds me of the Byers.” 

They both turn quiet again, his tears finally subsiding along with his sadness that turns into something a little bit more manageable. His entire body is still shaking though, and he doesn’t want to let go. 

“You deserve better parents, “ Nancy says. 

“Nah, it was understandable, “ Steve replies in a quiet voice, his throat wrecked from sobbing. “If you uh, couldn’t tell, I’m not exactly the brightest.” 

He could feel Nancy shake her head. “That’s not fair. It doesn’t matter if you were behind everyone else. You deserve someone who would actually help and support you, like a real parent, not those assholes.”

He takes a deep breath, struggling not to tear up but trying anyways despite the fact that he already just sobbed in her shoulder.  _ Fuck, I’m a mess _ . His grip around Nancy tightens, and she resumes brushing out the knots in his hair to comfort him. And it works, feeling her gentle hands hold him, something he forgot he craved so desperately, like a void that needs to be filled. Maybe that’s why he always tries so hard to achieve some kind of relationship. The moment he was with Nancy, he had gotten a taste of it and realised he’d been starving his entire life. He’s had attention from girls before, but it wasn’t like this, wasn’t like what he had with Nancy, and then with Robin even if it was in a very different, very platonic way. These people hugged him, and gave him gifts, and laughed with him and trusted him despite all the bullshit with his past, how he treated Nancy and Jonathan before waking the fuck up. How is he now only realising that his parents never gave him that? 

“Nance…” He started.

She hums, pausing with a hand still in his hair.

“Thanks. For uh, this.” 

And she laughs softly. “You’re welcome.”


End file.
